


a heaven nobody wants

by briath



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Addax sucks 2k18, Angst, Bisexuals! In Space!, Break Up, Canon Compliant, Canon Trans Character, Committing Treason, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff, I'll put warnings, Loneliness, Mental Health Issues, Mild Space Transphobia, Multi, Neuroatypicality, Unrequited Love, War, a lot of this story is just about Love, canon-level discussion of suicide, it's not that dark it's just melancholy, language barriers, not rlly but yknow, space racism, spoilers for kingdom game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16011062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briath/pseuds/briath
Summary: As the war is drawing closer to an ever more devastating end, Oricon puts its last remaining hope into ace pilot Jace Rethal, and asks him to join a squadron of elite soldiers, lead by Tea Kenridge.or: Space is cold and lonely, but where there's a light (or a love), we hang on to it.





	1. zero hour

**Author's Note:**

> uhh haha i've been working on this since before i started "i love you like a rabbit loves the fear" bc i Love the kingdom game charas & arc, but it took a lot of worldbuilding, and uh, work. 
> 
> Warnings & rating are there to be safe; you know what canon's like. Will post in sections. EDIT: chapters.
> 
> work title from mark doty's "homo will not inherit"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One vice. One gift I let myself have. The warmth.” Addax Dawn, c/W episode 28, "A Special Kind of Warmth." Closing narration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Prologue

Addax Dawn believes in the Diaspora with something more than faith and harsher than hope. But it will not be until several years from now that he will truly consider the nature of faith; once he has had time to consider all he has lost; once he has seen Jace Rethal's flaming eyes on him on the burnt-out carcass of counter/Weight. It is not Weight that gives him faith, he think. Nor, indeed, is it the divines, powerfully though they hand in the sky. 

Addax Dawn, agent of the Rapid Evening, once candidate of Peace, once Order, sits down at a messy desk, recognizes the sad irony of this, and begins to sort his thoughts onto paper. In a frame on his desk, a man, smiling, holding his fist half in the air.

Time flies when you're having fun, but Addax Dawn nevertheless remembers the last years of the Golden War with both unremitting clarity, and intense muddiness. 

But what he does know is that he, at some point, some 10 or 12 or 15 years ago this day, was visiting this very planet, back when Apostolos still seemed a threat bigger than life, filling out the skies with their fleet that appeared like warning bells out of the dark. 

Addax, candidate of Peace, is tired; worn deep-down into his bones, yet carries himself with much the same pompous grace and presence as nearby high-rises. He is here to await orders; awaiting, more specifically, a predicted attack by an Apostolisian attack on a Diasporan supply route led by one of the more high-profile Apostolisian mech pilots. Addax, back then, knew this person's name, but, as time erodes so many things, he has, not to his displeasure, forgotten entirely.

Addax Dawn remembers posters plastered on top of posters, caricatures and stern shots of his face, covered in strips of stickers that read “Bringer of Peace” in brightly-outlined stencils. He knows there were pictures of his counterpart, also, his not-yet-his Jace. Knows he didn't pay much attention to them, for he recognized them to be propaganda, and, as they were not Diasporan propaganda, much less important.

He owns a copy of one, now, a stylized copy in any case, produced by Orth Godlove at some point under circumstances he hesitates to enquire after, and presented to Jace under much giggles some time during the later half of the Kingdom Operation.

Addax, candidate of Peace, doesn't speak Apostolisian and sees no reason to, and so the curved smears against certain limestone-walled buildings mean little to him, save the presence of a force unwanted. 

His position elevates him, it's true, in the sense that he _is_ privy to some information the general public is not, but not as much as he would like to (when faced with other candidates such as Grace's) pretend he is. 

This enables even decorated war-hero, Addax, candidate of Peace, to enter a relatively abandoned, relatively mainstream, little coffee store, just outside the small spaceport he had left Peace at, trusting them to take care of themselves. He sits down, and orders a caramel-infused hot caffeinated beverage, which he then proceeds to forget about except to occasionally take a sip or two, gazing out the window and contemplating his importance.

Addax Dawn takes this down on paper without fear. His importance was real, back then, and is real now, and he would not under-exaggerate the gravity of feeling isolated in importance. The pain it brought to those who were dear to him, and to him himself. Him and Jace have talked about the Kingdom Operation on occasion, have included Jamil in some, but not all, of it, but it still remains a dark shape in his head, like a burn mark, of what it means to believe _you_ are worthy of faith.

The appearance of Jace Rethal, thinks Addax, candidate of Peace, must be a sign that the situation is truly desperate. 

And he is right, if not in the way he thinks he is. Because thousands of miles away, in an Apostolisian development laboratory, the head engineer is pitching a project to the Apokine, one they promise will finally give them the leverage they need to turn the tide of the war in their favour for good. 

But for now, Addax, candidate of Peace, lights himself a cigarette, and resolves to think about his job instead, his and Jace's, and the hope of entire planets hefted onto their shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi uwu! this is something new I'm trying, and I hope it's interesting. I'll have the next chapter up...soon. This is mostly just a taster


	2. further yet to fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace finds out what he's supposed to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took kinda long. No special warnings for this one. Next chapter will be longer, probably.

The O-con operative that calls Jace to the meeting has the most impressive curly moustache Jace has ever seen. They speak to him in slightly staticky O-con standard suggesting a dialect-modifying implant. “Mr. Rethal,” they say, and Jace looks up to see their eyes behind a pair of shaded specs expand and contract again. “Your stats.” They wave their hand wildly. “Are very impressive. How old are you?” Jace, preparing to defend himself against a new and upgraded version of the talent-spiel, finds that he is unable to close his mouth. The operative continues with great cheer, and little indication they noticed Jace's spittake.

“In any case. Mr. Rethal. May I be frank with you?” “Sure,” Jace responds brightly.

“Mr. Rethal, you are a very bright young man. As such, I am sure you have noticed that the situation in the Golden Branch Sector is dire.” They pause for a moment, then continue: “You have flown with the Gambit before, right?” “Yeah. Kenridge's command, right?” They nod.

“We would like for you to join with this squad of elite Oricon Riggers; our civilization is facing crisis from two fronts, and although we have set aside our squarrels with the Diaspora for the time being, we are still a ways away from peace talks. Our friends,” a pause, “from the Diaspora appear to be unaccustomed to dealing with military might larger than theirs.”

“But,” and at this they lean forward, eyes gleaming, “You are not. We would offer you food and lodgings, of course, and a custom mech made by one of our top engineers; but we would greatly encourage you to consider this a decision to be made morally, first and foremost.” Their teeth gleam. “We know you want to protect your system and family.”

Jace is twisting a piece of fabric between his hands, again and again. Now that they are looking at him for his reply, he forces himself to still his hands. 

“And what if, the Gambit don't,” he cuts himself off before saying too much, “what if we don't work well together?” “Well,” their teeth shine ever brighter in the plasma green light of the operative's office, “I think you should probably avoid that from happening. We don't have that many shots left, you know.”

Now they sit themselves upright in their chair, and their voice drops to a more serious register. “In fact, Jace, this might be our last one.”

Jace, pale and fingers shaking, drops his piece of fabric into his lap and nods.

Their demeanour changes again. “Great,” they say brightly, pressing a button on their handheld. Jace feels the responding buzz in his anklet. “I have sent you a file of dossiers on the current members of the Gambit, as well as information concerning mission briefing. A colleague will accompany you to the star base the Gambit are currently stationed at and show you to the hangar.”

They gush out air and clink their wrists together. Then they turn and say something into a comms unit on the surface of their desk. He thinks they're speaking Archonic, a worker's dialect, but what would he know.

A greeting. A mumbled woman's voice. “Yes. Hello,” a mechanical clang, swearing (Jace thinks), then the operative nods, closes a lid over the comms button, and turns to Jace. “She's ready for you now,” they say gravely.

Jace, perplexed, has the wherewithal to stand up jerkily, mirroring the operative, who glides past them and through the open door. Without turning around, they pause for a moment, “Now, Mr. Rethal, if you would please follow me,” then turn the corner for a left. 

Jace matches their pace at a slight distance. His hands hang loose by his side, and he allows himself one deep, unobtrusive inhale. He tries to collect himself. This is his job, and his responsibility. He straightens his shoulders. “What can you tell me about this mech?”

The operative raises themselves, their spine angling out slightly. “The Panther Mark 2. Truly, we believe it to be the only Rigger in the system that could match your tactical, erm, wit.” They glance back as if to see if he's listening. “It is, of course, designed to be piloted by only you, and thus matched to your bio-prints. It is also,” as they approach the door to the hangar, “unique in other ways.”

They press a button on their wrist. The door slides open, and they step aside and wave Jace through. He goes.

Oh.

“Is that.....is that it?” He know what he sounds like, choked up, but fuck if that isn't a gorgeous terrifying piece of machinery. “That's my Panther? It's a bird?”

The operative nods, paternal and pleased. Their teeth gleam.

“What are those lines for?”

A woman's voice drifts down from above their heads, coarse and half-amused. “You know how they say 'if only you could be in two places at once'?” 

She jumps down from the last plateau of the construction deck and wipes her hand on her red jumpsuit. She doesn't look Oricon. 

She turns and says a few words in the same variant to the operative as before. They nod and scurry away. Jace throws them a passing glance, then takes a step up. Feeling almost feverish, he says: “You mean it can split?” She nods, smiles. “Yes. This is a heavily modified custom Rook, outfitted with a specially designed helm and piloting system.”

“And what about—,“ she smiles again. “It carries small jet blasters in each of the smaller units—obviously I haven't been able to test all that, but you should be able to control up to eight separate 'panthers'—for defence, and a beam saber protruding from the torso.” She grins. “It might look a bit eerie.” 

Jace stares at her. 

“Are you the one who designed this?”

“My name is Natalya Greaves.” She holds out her hand to him; he takes it. Briefly, he wonders if he should bow—He knows the upright style of greeting is preferred on most Oricon star bases, but maybe her heritage would allow it? Fuck, he doesn't know. He doesn't know what to make of most of this, and Natalya Greaves will have to wait for another day. He glances up at the Rigger again.

Natalya has a twinkle in her eyes, like she knows.

“Can I sit in it?” She steps to the side, raising one eyebrow in a 'go on' gesture. 

Jace licks his lips, once, then steps forward to reach for the lowest rung on the Rig ladder, only to find his fingertips not quite reaching it. Natalya, instead of saying anything, just watches. With a heave of breath, Jace pushes himself onto the balls of his feet, and jumps up. Once he has that first grip, it is easy for him to pull himself onto the next rung. And from there on, it feels natural to keep going: rung after rung, as quick as he will let himself. He can feel the Panther under his fingers, and it's eager for him, calls for him like he has called for it.

He shakes his head wildly, strands of blond hair flipping over his eyes. He knows it's not a divine. But for all the divines he has seen or met in battle, he cannot shake the understanding that he is looking at a very competent, sentient machine. He twists his finger in his overall, his hand around the airlock. “Go on, open it!” comes Natalya's voice from below him. 

He does.

It doesn't take his breath away the way the immediate shape of the Panther did. Seeing the pulls and buttons and the upholstered seat only reminds Jace that this is a cockpit, and he's a soldier. 

But even though that awareness could never be considered 'comfortable', something about it still feels Right. Jace pulls his head back out of the latch and clicks the button to close it. The slam echoes through the hall.

“You're not getting in?” Jace shakes his head. “There will be time for that later.” He climbs back down.

Natalya, when he is standing in front of her once more, gives him a critical once-over. 

“You're sure you can pilot a mech this complicated?”

Jace blinks. Yes.

“I am sure. Do you know when I will meet with the Gambit?” 

Natalya smiles again. “Good. I think somebody is supposed to pick you up tomorrow morning and fly you over, so make sure you're ready by then.” 

Jace nods. 

When Natalya doesn't say anything more, he takes a few steps to the side. When she stays quiet still, looking at a display-board in her left palm, he begins to walk towards the smaller door at the end of the hanger. He is but a few arms away, when Natalya calls after him: “Be good to my Rook!”

He turns. Her face is serious. He nods, wavers, yells out an, “You got it, officer!” and gives a sloppy salute, which she returns, before he faces the door again and smoothly slips out. Time to go figure out Oricon's Gambit.

+

It's 4 o'clock by the Central Reckoning of Time when his alarm alerts him to the fact that he is needed ready and in his mech in about half a turn. Jace wakes up with hair in his mouth, and a sense of disgruntlement several months in the army have taught him to suppress instantly. He groans. 

He found himself far too drained last night to do more than glance through Tea Kenridge's profile, and gawk at some of the more modified Custom Rooks. He finds himself having to face the fact that he's going into this with severely limited information. Fantastic. 

He chances another look at the clock, and groans again.

Up he goes. 

+

The Panther moves under his hands like it was made for him. About half an hour ago Jace had turned of his comms, having grown tired of the loud breathing of the woman in the other mech who had picked him up. Like this, he could concentrate fully on the mechanics of an unfamiliar mech under his hands—the handles were different from what he was used to. But it was a mech. 

Jace sighs, and tries to see if he can stretch out his shoulders without letting go of the control. Not well, it turns out. “How much further,” he says to himself, to space, to the woman who might or might not be hearing him still. He doesn't receive an answer.

He flips a panel open and sticks his fingers in to zoom into the display. When he is done, he closes it again, throws another look at the estimated distance, and settles himself back in his seat, resolving to be patient. 

The Panther, under his hands, hums steadily ahead.

+

Tea Kenridge is waiting for him when he gets out of the mech, steps wobbly and under-eye circles deep and visible the moment he took of his helmet, and she is, in that first startling moment, the only thing alive in the room. 

The effect fades as soon as he blinks.

He refocuses. Tea Kenridge is a little taller than him, or maybe standing a little more upright, or maybe there's some invisible elevation leading from him to her—light hair and dirt-brown cheeks. She's wearing gloves and a flightsuit, like he is, and her eyes are open and assessing on him. 

Jace walks towards her.

“Commander Kenridge, I am Jace Rethal. I have been sent to report to your command for the forseeable future by the Oricon War Commission. I hope we will work well together.” 

She gives him a quick glance. Her expressions move too quickly for Jace to discern in their entirety, but at the corner of her mouth twitches, for just one moment, the hint of a smile. “You too, Rethal.” She takes another moment to look at him, like she might be thinking of saying something else.

Instead, she takes a brisk step towards him, drops her hand on his shoulder, squeezes, and says, “Let me show you the mess hall. I'm really fucking hungry, and if I were you, I would be too.”

He really fucking is.

+

They walk down the hallways of the ship with the kind of speed that suggests no need for hurry, but simply an innate predilection for moving at speed, as if saying “Oh, this? This is how I always walk.” Any onlookers would be hard-pressed to tell how much of this was an act.

“Will the other crew members be in the mess hall?” Jace asks, keeping pace with Tea carefully. He likes this. The speed, the certainty. 

“Yeah,” Tea replies. “Unless somebody kicked them out.”

“Kick-kicked them out?”

“Mh-mh.”

“Why would they have been kicked out?”

Tea grins a little, then blows her hair out of her face. “'Cos I'm not there to supervise them. Those assholes really like testing my patience.”

She pushes the door with her shoulder and jerks her head at him. “C'mon in, we don't bite.” She grins wolfishly. “Too much paperwork.”

Jace stops in shock for just a second, then he snorts out a laugh. At that, her grin widens. “Come on in, Jace Rethal. Meet the Queen's Gambit.”

He makes sure his steps are certain. Behind him he hears Tea slam the door. 

The mess hall resembles a cheaply-outfitted lounge more than a cafeteria; a hole-in-the-wall serving point, low tables, easy-to-clean white-grey walls and chairs, a couple vending operators. Jace does a quick sweep of the hall. It looks to be fairly empty, all tables unoccupied save one placed centrally, the lights on the walls dimmed down to save energy. The hum of the machinery itches in Jace's fingers, makes him long for a button to press, the metaphysical imprint of a sword to hold in them, safe, sure. He takes a deep breath.

Tea marches past him towards the central table. 

The table's occupants—a group of four people who all seem like they could star in commercial films for both combat sims and The Camaraderie Found in War—pay her no heed. One of them has their foot on the table, singing a war-song in a dialect Jace isn't familiar with but whose tune he has heard every day for eight years now. Another is helplessly shaking their head, trying to suffocate their laughter with a fist in their mouth. Tea comes to a stop. She gives the entire table a disapproving once-over, then slams her hand onto the table. 

“Everyone,” she bellows. “Can you calm the fuck down for a minute?” The table quietens, minutely, then the one with a long braid of coppery hair holds out a beer. “Want some of this, Commander?” 

Tea hesitates for a mere second, before grinning and throwing it back. “Thanks, Tell. Now, will the rest of you fuckers please listen?” They turn towards her attentively. She smiles, full of teeth, and sweeps out an arm. “May I introduce to you Jace Rethal, Oricon pilot, our newest member.” 

Jace steps forward and lifts a head in greeting. 

Another one of the people frowns. “A new member? Just like this? Why couldn't the higher-ups have warned us?” Before Tea can say anything, Tell swats at them with the over-large sleeve of their flight suit. “They did, numbskull. Commander Kenridge literally send a message around last evening to remind you.” The person grumbles into their mug. Tell leans forward and tilts their head at him. They grin, suddenly. “Unless you mean to say you still don't check your messages?” 

They seem to sink further into their mug, grumbling, and Tea seems to suppress a giggle. Several of her crew members attempt to do the same, with considerably less success.

“Alright fellas, Jace and I are gonna go get some grub. Stay out of trouble, you hear me?!” The one with the orange braid beams up at her, a shark's grin. “Don't we always, Commander?” 

Tea snorts. “Yeah, right. Come on, Jace, let me show you how the system works here.”

She leads him towards the serving point, which is unstaffed. 

“Lunch rush is already past, and dinner won't be for a while yet.” 

She jumps over the counter, pushing herself up with one arm. The smack on the dark plasticine surface rings hollow, and the ring continues on as Tea, with an air of familiar efficiency, pulls out a pair of silver plates, and begins heaping food onto them. 

As she is doing this, strands of her hair—military-short, thinks Jace, like his—fall over her eyes. Tea does not pay them any mind. “So, do you think you'll fit in well?,” she asks, deceptively casual. Jace glances back at the members of the Gambit, laughing and drinking around the central table. He shrugs as he turns back towards Tea. “It's a bit early to tell,” he says, a smile playing around his lips. “They're a rowdy bunch,” he adds. 

Tea looks at him, suspicious. He grins for real, then. “I can see why they put you in charge, Commander” he adds.

Tea laughs, loudly. “Ha! You got that right, bud! Without me, they'd just be a buncha gamblers.”

They stare at each other, silently. 

“You know, cause they're...the Gambit, they're my..” 

“Oh, yeah, no, I get it,” Jace hastens to say. He tries to smile, finds himself too awkward. He continues to stare back at Tea, who is, in turn, gazing at his face in what appears to be deep contemplation. At once, she starts, blushes, coughs roughly, wipes her hands on her apron, and straightens. “Well!,” she says. “I apologize for that, it..was.” 

“Bad?,” Jace asks, carefully. 

She laughs. “Pretty bad. Here's your food, pretty boy. Hope you're hungry enough you can't taste it anymore.”

Jace looks down at his hands, smiling.

“But yeah, just show up here, show them your ID sign—you have an ID sign, right?” Jace nods. “Great. Just do that, and we'll make sure you're fed for as long as we have food.”

She jumps back over the counter, a little slower this time, perhaps to not knock over her plate.

“Seconds are a yay, thirds are always a nay. Got it?” He nods.

“Great!” She claps a hand on his shoulder, Jace suppresses a wince. “Then let's go eat!” 

And with that, she marches back towards the table, while Jace, looking at her back, finds himself relaxing, an increment. He takes a step in the direction of her laughter, and it doesn't make him feel at peace. But he thinks that Tea Kenridge, though she may be loud and brash, has something of perhaps a quality of distraction, a sense of _ease_ , and that, in times like these, is not nothing. At least not for him. He exhales, and walks forwards.

+

In the evening, Jace is still (again) (again again again) in the hangar bay. Commander Kenridge had told them at mealtime to rest well—new orders would come sooner rather than later—but Jace, after all but a life moved and moving between different planets and places, know himself well enough. He doesn't think he will sleep tonight. And though the Gambit had told him he was welcome to join them for a drink at any time (“or sponsor us!,” they laughed), he really would rather feel himself settle, even just a little.

He sighs, and stares up at his mech. “Spaces, who thought you up, huh?” 

Lost in thought, he reaches out with one hand to touch its leg. It's always felt silly, this habit of his. _Jace, they're machines. What do you think will happen, they'll suddenly come alive under your hands? You've read too many diVide stories. As if those aren't Diasporan propaganda, anyway. Ohhh, Jace, what's that? It moved? Is it purring? Haha, spaces, war really does turn you kooky sooner rather than later?”_

Behind him, someone clears their throat. 

He spins around. 

It's Tea Kenridge, Commander, and she's still wearing her officer's uniform blazer, opened up, and her hands are pushed in the pockets of her trousers, and she's slouching just a little. Tea Kenridge is watching him with a slight, careful, frown. 

Jace feels like he might look more in awe than he wants to be. 

“Commander?,” he rasps. “Can I do anything for you?” 

She stays quiet for a few seconds longer, long enough that Jace begins to be discomfited by the scrutiny. 

“Uh--.” 

She interrupts him. “Rethal?” 

He coughs. “Yes, commander?” 

Whatever she was looking for, Jace thinks she must have either found or given up on it, for she straightens her posture. “Would you be interested in seeing the other member's Riggers?” 

Jace knows he is gaping. _Snap out of it, fool._ What's the right answer here? 

He looks at her again, and it feels like a longer look than it really is; Tea Kenridge with her flushed cheeks, her hands curled into fists not in repose but preparation. He realizes that he isn't scared of her. Not...he tells himself firmly, not in a way that means he doesn't respect her, or believe in her capacity as a commander, but more as though, at some point, they had looked at each other, and a part of them that would rest quiet in them for a large part of their lives henceforth save for a few notable exceptions, had recognized its kin and said, silently, _I will not harm you. We are at war, and not you._

“Yes,” he says, honestly. 

He no longer feels short, his spine straight for a spine. 

Commander Kenridge smiles at him. 

They step through the hangar at a pace much more sedate, Jace deep in thought, and Commander Kenridge seemingly willing to let him be. Even when they stop before mech after mech, Rigger after Rigger, Jace contends himself with looking: each of them tall as a house, each of them gleaming, patched up with paint. He sucks at his teeth. Machines. 

Next to him, Kenridge has stepped forward, holding onto one of them with a strong grip and peering upwards along the length of it. Jace wonders about perspective, tilts his own head to the side.

“Commander Kenridge?” he asks. She puts a hand on her hip and lifts an eyebrow, as if to say, 'go on.' “Can I see yours?”

She grins at him, letting go of the mech with her other hand. “Thought you'd never ask.” 

It's the last one—or the first?—in the row, and Jace thinks that's her, that's who she wants us to see, so he nods, and Tea Kenridge steps in front of him, spreads her arms and says: “I present: the Queen Custom.”

Jace nods absentmindedly at her. “You take good care of it.” She gives him a stony look, so he plows on. “It looks really strong, speed mech, right?” She pauses for a moment, looking at him in a way Jace can't decipher, and then she says: “Yeah, it's got a strong engine. Weapon's a shotgun, mainly. You want the full specs?” Her voice is incredulous, vaguely mocking, but Jace thinks his day was long, and he'll forgive himself for forgoing some of the etiquette. 

Tea Kenridge's voice is even, her posture stable, but what the new recruit doesn't see is her hands, forced close. It's hard for her to add another member to her motley crew, so soon after Godlove's departure—bless him—hard to remember how to trust a face she hasn't seen at breakfast every day for three years.

She glances, out of the corner of her eyes, at her feet. Still. She got command of the Gambit because she was _good_ , and those higher-ups better believe she won't let it go so easily. She smiles. Yeah. The new recruit ( _Rethal_ , for chrissake, as though avoiding his name will mean avoiding the future, and Tea knows all too well the fates awaiting soldiers in the Golden Branch), is part of her team now.

 _"Tea Kenridge, really?"_

_"Tea, you know what this means. Follow your orders."_

She takes off her coat, folds is, hangs it over one arm. The new recruit has switched from looking at her to looking at her mech. He looks—young, like any of them look young, no strict physical marker of what they've been save what they chose themselves—Rocky's sleeve of bio-tattoos, Knot's missing fingers—she runs a finger over the officer's emblem on her coat. It is glowing in the dim light of the hangar. She needs it to.

She turns her head to look at the empty space across from her, thinks Orth Godlove might have liked Jace. 

When she looks for him again, he is sitting on the floor, inspecting the booster packs on one of the other riggers. Thank the fucking stars he's on our side, she thinks, grimly, but with a smile threatening to fill her mouth. She gives herself a mental kick. With a look at her holo-watch, she walks towards him, her boots loud on the floor. “It's getting late now, soldier. Time for me to return to my quarters. You ought to be doing the same.” 

And from the floor at her feet, Jace, broad-shouldered and with a psychosomatic tremor in his left hand Tea is too tired to detect, stands up, shakes himself, looks at her nose bridge, and nods. 

_I have given a lot for this. I gave many, many things. It's enough, now. I will not give them you._

+

Not two days later, they receive their first order.

Jace watches Tea climb into the cockpit of her Queen even though the rest of the Gambit are already mostly seated and ready to go. When she is just about to step in, she catches him staring. 

Both the loudness of machinery and the loudness of their gazes, caught. Jace's skull rings. Tea gives him a resolute nod, steps, slams the door shut behind her. With little left to do but the routine of a job well-used-to, Jace, thoughtful, follows suit—

finds the guide lights—

finds his way outside by following, finds himself followed in turn, then they disperse, bright bright whirs, the darkness of space no less dark

not even lonely, not anymore—

In the godlessness of space Jace finds himself the Panther, and, dizzily, as he charges up his blade, tries valiantly to believe in the many parts of himself that make up him in this fight. 

This moment.

Through his headset, the voice of Tea Kenridge crackles. "On my command. Go!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tea's my wife everyone


End file.
